“It’s Not a Shovel. It’s An ENTRENCHING TOOL”
Well ain't this a kick in the slats. More snow. And not just any snow, OH NO. This shit is not going to be playing around, buster. This snow will eat your EYES. Okay, fine, we all know the more the teevee wails and gnashes their collective teeth about how SNOWPACALYPSE 2010 PART DEUX (or is it trois? I stopped paying attention. Oooh, something shiny!) the less snow we will actually get. Right? RIGHT???????
Sigh. So the point is that I went over to the parents to pick something up yesterday, and my mom and dad were busy little bees fretting about SNOW OF DOOM, to which I said, eruditely as always, "Eh." Then this happened.
Mom: You need a shovel.
Me: I have a broom.
Mom: This is going to be WET SNOW.
Dad: Your broom will break.
Me: I'm not shoveling. I'm a LADY.
Mom: Your car will be stuck in the parking space till August.
Me: I can live with that. I'm not shoveling.
Mom: (to dad) Don't we still have that sand shovel from the Cape Cod days?
Mom: THE SHOVEL. The one we used to bring to the beach.
Dad: OH!!!! (getting excited) that's not a shovel.
Me: Here we go.
Dad: It's an ENTRENCHING TOOL.
Mom: Yes, the shovel.
Now. at this point, I have stopped paying attention, cause it's all I can do not to bust out laughing over the utter joy that my parents are feeling right now. My mom is ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS trying to get me to take shit from their house, because if it was up to her, she'd have a massive garage sale and get rid of EVERYTHING but two chairs, the bed, and the dog. Clutter! It's my mother's nemesis. So she's just piddling herself with the excitement that SOMETHING ELSE IS GOING AWAY YAY.
On the other hand, my dad LOVES clutter. Loves it! Like his daughter (that's me, for those taking notes at home) he's a packrat and gets emotionally attached to stuff. Things. Objects. It's where I get it from. WE FEAR CHANGE. So we keep EVERYTHING. It drives my mom insane. Anyway, back to the story.
Mom: Give her the shovel.
Dad: The ENTRENCHING TOOL. Remember that? We got it at the Army surplus store.
Me: Yep, I remember. That store was the bomb. So much stuff!
Mom: (ignoring us) Give her the shovel so she can dig the car out and not have to use the broom. The broom won't work on wet snow. GIVE HER THE SHOVEL.
Dad: (giddy) The ENTRENCHING TOOL. I know exactly where it is!
So off to the garage we go, and my dad locates the shovel – I mean, the ENTRENCHING TOOL and shows it to me, excited as all get out.
Dad: Remember? Remember how to use it?
Me: Yep, I remember. You and me, Dad. We remember stuff like this.
Dad: (not listening, playing with the shovel)
Me: Okay, thanks, I'll take that, and then I gotta go.
Dad: (not really too keen on parting with the entrenching tool)
Me: Just eaaaaaaaaase it over to me, Dad. I'll take good care of it.
Dad: (sullenly hands over the entrenching tool.)
Me: Good job, Dad.
So I threw it into the back of the car with the broom, and the ice scraper. I'm not shoveling, and I am most CERTAINLY not ENTRENCHING.
I'm a lady. A LADY. A delicate flower. A special snowflake. A lady does not ENTRENCH.
Oh shit, it's snowing. Um, I gotta go. I have mail-order husbands to research.